The horn blast tore through the afternoon silence.
DOOOOOOOOOOM.
It wasn't a sound of triumph. It was a heavy, mournful groan.
The hunting party had returned.
Hooves churned the mud of the courtyard. There were no cheers. No jests. A suffocating gloom hung over the riders like a shroud.
King Robert slid off his horse. He didn't look like a king. He looked like a man trying to outrun a ghost. The joviality of the departure was gone, replaced by a sullen, hungover silence. He tossed his reins to a groom and marched toward the Great Keep without a word.
Ned Stark followed. His face was harder than the stone walls of Winterfell.
Lynn watched from the shadows of the colonnade.
His "injuries" were healing fast—thanks to his Constitution—but he kept his face pale. It was the perfect camouflage. To the world, he was the loyal, broken soldier who had given everything to save the Lord's son.
Ned paused as he passed the shadows.
"Lynn. My solar. Now."
Lynn nodded. He watched the Lord of Winterfell stride away, his cloak billowing like a storm cloud.
The solar was cold.
The fire in the hearth was dying, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone. Ned didn't sit. He stood by the window, staring out at the grey sky, his back to the room.
He looked like a mountain beginning to crack.
"My Lord," Lynn said, closing the heavy oak door.
Ned turned slowly. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the exhaustion of a man who hadn't slept.
"I spoke with Catelyn," Ned rasped. "She told me what you did. You saved him."
"I did what I could."
"He's alive," Ned said, the words heavy as lead. "But he doesn't wake."
Lynn stepped forward. It was time to plant the seed.
"My Lord. Ask yourself." Lynn's voice was low, cutting through the silence. "Why did he fall?"
Ned flinched. "He liked to climb. It was an accident."
"Was it?"
Lynn didn't blink.
"Bran has climbed these walls a thousand times. He knows every stone. Every grip." Lynn paused for effect. "Squirrels don't fall from trees, My Lord. Unless someone shakes the branch."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Murder," Ned whispered. The word tasted like ash.
His hands balled into fists, knuckles white. "Who?"
"He saw something," Lynn said, guiding him. "Something in that tower. Something worth killing a Stark for."
Ned paced. The pieces clicked together in his mind. The letter from Lysa Arryn. The Lannisters. The Queen. The Kingslayer.
"Why?" Ned groaned. "He's a boy. Ten years old."
"The why doesn't matter right now," Lynn cut in. He needed Ned focused on the immediate threat, not the mystery. "What matters is that he's still breathing."
Ned stopped pacing. He looked at Lynn, confusion warring with horror.
"If he was pushed," Lynn said, his voice cold and absolute, "then the job isn't finished."
"As long as Bran breathes, he's a threat. If he wakes, he talks. If he talks..."
"Heads roll," Ned finished.
The Lord of Winterfell stared at Lynn. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
"They'll try again?"
"They must try again," Lynn corrected. "Tonight. Tomorrow. Soon. They can't leave Winterfell with a witness left behind."
"In my own home..." Ned's voice trembled with fury. "Under my roof."
"We can't just double the guard," Lynn warned. "That tells them we know. That drives them into the shadows."
Lynn stepped closer, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"We need them to come to us. We need a trap."
Night fell like a hammer.
Winterfell slept. The wind howled through the battlements, masking the silence of the grave.
Then—
"FIRE!"
The scream shattered the peace.
"THE LIBRARY! THE LIBRARY IS BURNING!"
Chaos erupted.
Torches flared to life in the courtyard. Men shouted. Buckets clattered.
Robb Stark burst from his chambers, hair wild, eyes wide. "Get the water! Form a line! Save the books!"
The library. The repository of thousands of years of Northern history. It was the perfect distraction.
Theon Greyjoy and the younger squires sprinted after Robb, their faces illuminated by the orange glow rising against the night sky. The guards abandoned their posts, drawn by the primal instinct to fight the flames.
But in the shadows of the Guest House, near Bran's room, silence reigned.
Lynn was there.
He merged with the darkness, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He wasn't watching the fire. He was watching the door.
He heard the chaos outside. He heard Catelyn inside, murmuring to the direwolf.
And then, he heard it.
Scuff. Scuff.
Soft footsteps. Not a guard's heavy boot. Leather soles. Quiet. Deliberate.
A shadow detached itself from the wall.
A small man, smelling of the stables and old sourleaf. He moved like a rat, hugging the stone.
He reached Bran's window. A knife slipped between the shutters. Click.
The shadow slipped inside.
Inside the room.
Catelyn sat by the bed, a statue of grief. She hadn't left Bran's side in days. Her eyes were hollow, staring at nothing.
Summer, the direwolf, lay at the foot of the bed.
Suddenly, the wolf's head snapped up.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated in its throat. The hackles on its back stood up like needles.
Catelyn blinked, pulled from her trance. "Hush, Summer. It's just the noise outside..."
Summer didn't hush. He bared his teeth, eyes fixed on the door.
The door creaked.
A man stood there.
He was filthy, small, and unremarkable. But his eyes were dead.
"You're not supposed to be here," Catelyn said, her voice trembling. "No one is supposed to be here."
"It's a mercy," the man rasped. "He's dead already."
He stepped forward.
In his hand, a dagger caught the light of the single candle.
It wasn't ordinary steel.
The blade was dark, smoky, rippled with a pattern that looked like flowing water. The hilt was dragonbone.
Valyrian Steel.
The weapon of kings, in the hand of a rat.
He raised the blade.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
Read up to (25+ ) advanced chapters on Patre\on
Visit us here: patreon.com/DarkGolds
Happy reading, everyone!